


Broken Bones (FebuWhump 16)

by SylvanFreckles



Series: Freckles' FebuWhump 2021 [16]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Broken Bones, Day 16, Febuwhump, Gen, Hurt Jaskier, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier Whump, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-14 20:00:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29547612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SylvanFreckles/pseuds/SylvanFreckles
Summary: Having freed Jaskier from the inn's cellar, Geralt takes him to safety to rest and recover. Danger is on their heels, however, and Geralt still might be too late to save his friend.(Set after Imprisoned, FebuWhump 03, you can find it easily by checking out the series link or going to my profile)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Freckles' FebuWhump 2021 [16]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2139234
Comments: 2
Kudos: 43
Collections: febuwhump 2021





	Broken Bones (FebuWhump 16)

**Author's Note:**

> Here it is! The sequel to "Imprisoned"! I hope it was worth the wait!

The main room of the inn was practically aglow with the midday sun compared to the darkness of its cellar, though Geralt's eyes had no trouble adjusting. He paused at the top of the steps while Jaskier squinted into the light, however, to let the bard adjust to both the brightness of the day outside and the release from his imprisonment.

They'd been supposed to meet at this inn—though Geralt hadn't realized it was so disreputable—a few days before, but Geralt had been detained thanks to an injury on a hunt. He'd arrived to find the innkeeper and his thuggish companion had beaten Jaskier and locked him in the cellar, and mostly likely robbed him as well.

The thug was nowhere to be seen. He'd tried to get in between Geralt and the cellar and Geralt had caught him by the wrist and simply kept twisting until he heard a satisfying crack. The innkeeper, however, was still behind the counter, looking like he couldn't decide between swinging a club at Geralt, pissing himself, or making a break for it.

Geralt gently escorted Jaskier over to one of the long wooden benches near the hearth and sat him down, giving the bard's shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

Jaskier caught his sleeve. “I don't want to stay here,” he pleaded. Geralt couldn't blame him—the man had been left to go cold and hungry, bound to a rack of kegs, waiting for whatever uncertain fate the innkeeper had in store for him.

“We won't,” Geralt replied, keeping his voice low and his eyes on the innkeeper. “What did he take from you?”

“I don't care about the money, let's just go.”

“Jaskier.”

The bard heaved a weary sigh. “Eight crowns? Maybe a little more? My room...I don't know what they did with my lute.”

Geralt grunted. He squeezed Jaskier's shoulder again and gently extricated his sleeve from his friend's grasp. Then he schooled his features into what Jaskier always called his “Witcher Face” and stalked over to the innkeeper, the fury he was barely keeping in check alive in every muscle.

“S-sir,” the innkeeper stammered. “We was just...he couldn't pay his bill, a-and the alderman-”

“No.” Geralt slammed his hand on the counter, hard enough that the inkwell toppled over and the innkeeper took a few frightened steps back. By the sudden scent of ammonia in the air, it looked like he'd chosen to piss himself instead of run or fight. Good. “I've seen your little game before. The other man that was here, the scarred one. He had a tattoo,” Geralt drew a line with his finger over his right eye. “You work for the press-gangs.”

It was a nasty business. The press-gangs got around some of the laws against slavery by claiming their indentured workers were there to work off a debt. It sounded good on the surface—a man who'd gambled too much or taken a loss on his property could work a few years in a mine or on the road works to pay back his creditors—but like so many things it had gotten twisted. Most of what Geralt had seen were men and women, and even children, forced into heavy labor for exaggerated or nonexistent debts.

“Give me his money,” Geralt demanded.

The innkeeper was shaking his head. “S-sir, he was our guest for five days, w-we deserve some-”

Geralt slammed his hand against the counter again. This time the scarred wood gave an alarming groan, like one more blow would crack it. The innkeeper swallowed, then rummaged around beneath the counter and shakily counted out five Redanian crowns.

“All of it,” Geralt growled. Another swallow. The odor pouring off the innkeeper shifted a bit, as though he'd soiled himself as well. Then shaking hands laid five more crowns on the counter.

Geralt swept the coins into his pocket. “His belongings?”

“Th-the stable,” the innkeeper jerked his head toward the door. “We've no one to sell to until Pas...until the peddler comes through. Check the barrels.”

Turning on his heel, Geralt walked back over to his friend's side. “Can you walk?” Much as Jaskier—and Geralt—wanted to be out of this place, he wouldn't endanger his friend's safety. When the bard nodded he slowly guided him back to his feet and wrapped one of Jaskier's arms around his shoulder.

“I'm sorry I was late,” Geralt said when they'd made the relative safety of the stable. He left Jaskier leaning against the feedbox while he went about preparing Roach for travel and searching the barrels for his friend's belongings. There were only a few things—his lute, some clothing, a few toiletry items—and he carefully packed those in his own saddlebags.

“You beat Pascar here,” Jaskier replied, wearily. “That's most important.”

“Pascar?”

“They said,” Jaskier waved his hand toward the inn, winced, and rested it against his side while he fought to catch his breath. “He was supposed to be here in a day or so. Collecting workers for the salt mines.”

Geralt had the sudden urge to go back in and run the innkeeper through, but he ignored that in favor of adjusting Roach's saddle and brushing a soothing hand down her shoulder. She was agitated because he was agitated, and all three of them would feel a lot better leaving this town behind them. He gestured to Jaskier and the bard shuffled over to them to be hoisted up into the saddle. Geralt climbed up in front of him and clicked his tongue at Roach to start her moving.

Jaskier groaned a little at the jolt and leaned forward to rest his body against Geralt's. The witcher didn't mind—Jaskier was a tactile creature, and if a little physical closeness would help drive away the demons of the last few days then Geralt would be happy to offer it.

During his recovery from his own injury, Geralt had sheltered in a ruined barn about half a day's ride from this thrice-damned inn. That would suit them enough for a day or two, until Jaskier was recovered enough for a longer trip.

The bard gave another moan and huddled closer, and when Geralt risked a glance he could just see his friend's head resting against his shoulder. Geralt reached back and patted Jaskier's knee. “Just don't fall off, all right?”

* * *

It was well past dusk when they reached the barn. Geralt had left a stash of kindling behind for the next traveler who needed shelter, so he easily built a fire while Jaskier tried to make himself comfortable against the half-rotted timbers.

He didn't have the heart to complain about the dirt on his clothes or the ratty blanket Geralt tried to tuck around him. Between the throbbing in his side and the ache in his belly, he was altogether miserable.

They hadn't stopped for a meal, but Geralt had forced a few field rations into him. They weren't the easiest things to digest after over a day without food, but it was better than waiting for a hot meal back at that inn.

Jaskier shivered, tucking his arms more closely around himself. If there had been some reason—if he'd insulted someone, or dallied with the wrong woman, or actually left his bill unpaid, he might have understood the attack. But to be assaulted, beaten, tied in a cellar, left to rot until the mine's foreman came around to collect, all at someone's whim?

If Geralt had been even a day later....

There was a hand on his knee. Jaskier shook himself out of his thoughts and tried to muster a smile as he looked up. “Geralt?”

The witcher's face was pinched with concern. “We need more firewood for the night,” he explained. “There are plenty of rabbits here, too, I thought I might snare a few for supper.”

Jaskier's heart clenched. He was being ridiculous—they were miles away from the town by now, and no one would have followed an angry witcher. He had no reason to be afraid of being left alone here. “I'm all right,” he tried to reassure his friend.

Geralt frowned, but he gave Jaskier's knee a gentle squeeze and rose to his feet. “I won't be far. Give a shout if you need me.”

To his horror, tears prickled behind Jaskier's eyes. He wasn't an infant, dammit! He had been terrified, yes, but he was safe now. He nodded and ducked his head, pretending to adjust the blanket around him. That cellar had been far too cold, and even now he could feel the chill in his bones.

His hand brushed over his side and he sucked in a breath, flinching back. Geralt had poked and prodded and declared it nothing worse than a few bruises and scrapes— _deep_ bruises, to be sure, but nothing broken, thank the gods.

The leaves rustled and the timbers around him creaked. Jaskier shivered and tried to scoot closer to the flames, fighting down the unease he felt at being alone. He hadn't originally planned on traveling with Geralt for long, but now he hoped the witcher wouldn't mind his company for a bit more time.

There was movement at the edge of the firelight. Jaskier squinted and shadowed his eyes with his hand, trying to compensate for the glare in his face. “Geralt?”

A shadowy figure drew closer, though it wasn't shaped right to be Geralt. Then a branch in the fire cracked, sending a shower of sparks upward, and for one, heart-stopping second the all-too-familiar face of the scarred man from the inn was visible.

Jaskier's breath caught in his chest, then he was struggling out of the blanket as the man rushed at him. He started to call for help but a heavy weight slammed into him and a meaty palm was clapped over his mouth.

“This must be my lucky day,” the scarred man snarled. “Your little friend broke my arm, so I'm gonna break every bone in your scrawny little body.”

The bard tried to thrash himself free, aiming a blow at the scarred man's injured arm, which he had strapped against his chest. Fingers tightened around his jaw and his head was slammed against the ground.

Stars exploded in his vision and his limbs went slack. Jaskier tried to roll away from the scarred man, but a cruel hand caught his wrist and twisted it up behind his back. “Scream for him,” the scarred man whispered, one foot heavy on Jaskier's back.

Jaskier whimpered through his teeth as the scarred man's weight forced the air out of his lungs. He couldn't have screamed if he'd wanted to, as the position put too much pressure on his bruised ribs for him to draw in a breath.

Then the scarred man gave another savage  _twist_ and something in Jaskier's forearm gave with a  _snap_ and he suddenly had the breath to scream.

* * *

Geralt didn't hesitate. When he heard Jaskier scream he dropped the armful of wood he'd gathered and charged into the barn, drawing his sword as he did. He pulled up short, eyeing the scarred man who stood with one foot on Jaskier's back, the bard's arm bent back at an awkward angle.

“I knew I should have killed you,” Geralt growled. The man's eyes had a feverish light, no doubt whatever potions he'd taken to combat the pain of his broken arm were affecting his mind.

“You broke something of mine,” the scarred man snarled. He shifted so that his foot was on Jaskier's shoulder and moved his hand up to grab the bard's index finger. “Now I break something of yours.”

“Don't-” Geralt took a step forward, but the scarred man gave a wrench and twisted his body one way, his foot the other, and Jaskier screamed again as his finger gave under the pressure.

The scarred man was panting, fumbling for Jaskier's middle finger next. “Do you know how many bones there are in the human body?” he asked. “I've never heard of anyone breaking them all, but I'm willing to be the first.”

“If you harm him further,” Geralt warned, but the scarred man's eyes were alight with madness and he twisted again. Jaskier's screams gave way to ragged sobs, his body going limp beneath his captor.

Geralt steadied his grip on his sword. “You're dead,” he told the scarred man.

The man actually laughed, dropping Jaskier's arm to aim a savage stomp at his back, where his ribs connected to his spine. “I can't even feel my arm,” he chortled, slapping himself on his wounded limb. “What could you possibly do to me?”

He was across the floor of the barn in one, fluid motion, the point of his sword driving easily into the scarred man's chest. The man gave a small hiccup of surprise and stared blankly down at the hilt protruding from his ribs.

“I don't...feel it,” he muttered before his eyes rolled back in his head and he started to collapse. Geralt kicked the corpse away before it could land on Jaskier and dropped to his knees to gently roll his friend over. Jaskier immediately curled around his injured arm and hand, his breath coming out in little pained moans.

“Let me see it, Jaskier,” Geralt urged gently. “The sooner we set it the less it will hurt. Let me see.” It took some coaxing, but Jaskier uncurled enough to let Geralt prod at the wound.

“Your fingers are just dislocated,” Geralt said, after a careful inspection. “But this is a break, here, above your wrist.” 

During the examination, Jaskier had pushed himself up to lean against Geralt, as though to soak up warmth and strength from his friend. Geralt wrapped one arm behind the bard's back and gently ran his hand up a down his spine, pausing over the sharp swellings that indicated damage to his ribs. “I think your arm is the worst,” he finally said. “These feel like fractures.”

Two dislocated fingers, a broken arm, and three fractured ribs. It could have been so much worse...but it was bad enough.

Jaskier didn't reply, merely turning his face into Geralt's shoulder as the witcher gently grasped his wrist and elbow to tug the break in his arm back into alignment. “Stay here, I need to make a splint.” 

He gently pushed the bad away from him and waited until Jaskier met his eyes and nodded, then hurried to his saddlebags to retrieve the bandages and salve he carried for his less serious wounds.

His fingers needed to be straightened and realigned, then splinted together. They would heal easily enough, and Jaskier wouldn't lose any mobility, thankfully. Then another, sturdier splint for the break in his arm, which Geralt then strapped across his chest for stability.

“Jaskier,” Geralt cupped the bard's face in both hands, waiting until weary blue eyes focused on him. “I'm going to drag the body out of sight and get the firewood I dropped, then I'll be back. We'll leave at first light; the inn at the ferry landing isn't too far.” He could send one of the soldiers from the landing back for the scarred man's body, it would keep for a day or two.

He waited until Jaskier nodded, then pushed to his feet. “I'll be back in a moment,” he reassured his friend. If Roach hadn't needed the rest he would have struck out even in the dark, relying on his own senses to guide them safely.

And if, when he returned from his tasks, he let the bard curl against his side for a few hours fitful sleep, what did that matter. He'd been too late too many times already...he wouldn't risk leaving his friend in danger again.

**Author's Note:**

> I mean, yes, I whumped Jaskier again, but did you see how many snuggles he got this time? That's almost a third of what you requested!


End file.
